The Charleston

By Jimmie von Tungeln

The younger girl held the matchbox steady as the older bored through one side and out the other an inch or so from the front. Using a rusted ice pick, she carefully pierced the cardboard without caving in the side. Her eyes narrowed from the concentration and her tongue curled against her upper lip. Together, they repeated the process at the rear and the girl held it up for inspection. “Now for the axles,” she said.

The younger picked up two slender twigs whittled to a near cylindrical shape and handed them to her sister. She stuck the twigs from side to side through the box. “Wheels,” she said. The other reached into her dress pocket and handed her four large buttons retrieved from a discarded coat. Taking them, she held them to the sky for inspection. There were four holes in each button, pre-cut for accepting thread. In the center, the girls had bored a single, larger hole. Through this hole, she pushed one of the buttons, then the rest, onto the sticks protruding from the sides of the box.

“Won’t be long, now,” the girl said. As she positioned each wheel, she stuck straight pins adjacent to the sides of the buttons to hold them in place. Finished, she held the completed apparatus up for inspection and then rolled it along the ground. The younger girl watched in admiration.

“Works good Essie,” she said. “Works real good.”

“We got us a wagon, Mabel,” the other said. She rolled the toy along the ground twice more and then held it up. “Now we’ll work on the tongue.”

“Let’s check on the team,” Mabel said.

“Let’s,” said Essie as she rose from her squatting position. She placed the toy wagon against a great oak tree rising from the front yard. She took the younger girl’s hand and they ran to a place under the porch of the house. There they had built a small lean-to a foot-square in the shade.

A woman in her mid-forties sat on the porch in an aged rocking chair watching the girls and moving in slow rhythm as she fanned herself with a fan that proudly announced its source as The Buie Funeral Home, Rison, Arkansas. The house was a modest structure of maybe 20 feet in width. Like many others of its type, it had three rooms, one behind the other with a back door leading to a well in the back yard for drawing water. Other than the rocking chair, the only embellishments visible on the front porch were a piece of broken mirror hanging from a string and a calendar by the door outlining the year 1924.

The woman stopped her rocking and fanning long enough to bend toward where the girls were crouched. “I’m a’tellin’ you girls them baby rats ain’t gonna live the day out so you moughts well bury them now.”

Neither girl replied. The had removed a piece of filthy blanket covering a small nest of hay and twigs that furnished the bed for four recently born rats. The tiny pink things were curled into tight balls and quivered as the air hit them.

“How long afore they’s big enough to pull the wagon?” asked Mabel.

“Couple of weeks, I reckon.”

“Hot damn.”

“I heard that,” the woman yelled from the porch. “Now y’all quit tormentin’ them babies or I’m gonna whup somebody’s ass.”

Essie giggled and covered the babies. “When we get the axles and tongue finished, we’ll start on the harnesses.”

“You still got them shoe laces?”

“All we’ll need.”

The girls withdrew from under the porch and stretched in the morning sun. Both were thin. Essie was six inches taller than the younger girl with jet-black hair that contrasted with the auburn hair of her sister. Both had bobbed coiffures, apparently fashioned at home. They each wore thin, simple dresses that draped over their bodies like clothes hanging from a line. Neither wore shoes.

“Mama, you said Uncle Frank used to make wagons out of match boxes and hook them up to rats. Why you fussin’ at us?” Essie said.

“Them rats was growed. He didn’t use no baby rats.”

“Ours gonna be growed in a couple of weeks if you give us some milk to feed them.”

The woman rocked back. “Now you girls shut up and come on around here. We got some washin’ to do.”

“Aw Mama. Can’t we play awhile?” Mabel said.

“You can play when I tell you to,” she said, but the girls didn’t hear. Their attention had centered on a distant sound, one unusual but familiar. They both walked to the edge of the cleared area that served as a front yard.

“Hear that?” Essie said nudging Mabel. “It’s car, and it’s headed this way.”

Mabel didn’t answer. She turned to look at her mother for confirmation. The woman had heard the sound as well. She raised a hand to her mouth and Mabel could see concern on her face. “Mama, somebody’s …,” she began but the woman motioned for her to be quiet.

“You girls come up here,” she said.

The girls obeyed and stood by their mother as the automobile came closer. They heard a rattling sound that seemed to echo from the large oaks that ringed the house. Had it not been for the fact that only one road led by their home, Mabel thought that it would have been hard to tell from which direction the sound came. It just came, that was all, growing louder until they could hear, among the sounds of the engine, the squeaking of the car’s body as it labored along the ruts and crevasse making up the dirt road.

“Reckon who it is, Mama?” Essie said.

“Hush now. You girls be quiet.”

Then there was a flash as sunlight bounced off glass and the girls could see snatches of a dark form moving through the woods like an animal on the prowl. The two moved closer to their mother.

The form then burst from the darkness of the woods and a complete automobile emerged. A faded black shape marked with large rings of rust and dents bounced into view and headed straight for the house.

Instinctively, the mother shooed her daughters behind her, ready to absorb the first shock if the shape didn’t stop before it reached them.

It swerved, though, just as it reached the edge of the front yard and came to a sudden stop parallel to the front porch. The front end dipped twice as if bowing in deference and then the entire apparatus was still.

Essie peered from behind her mother. “Look, Mama, it’s Carl and Fred.” She laughed at the thought of their being frightened. “It’s just Carl and Fred. They done got themselves a car.”

Those on the porch couldn’t see them well, but to the right of each of the men sat others who appeared to be female.

“How you, Mama?” Fred yelled.

The woman didn’t answer. She looked at the car and its occupants as if they had dropped into her yard from another world.

“We come by to see you,” the man said. “How you like my car?”

The woman looked the car over from end to end. “What you boys up to?” she said.

“I done told you, Mama,” Fred said. “We come by to see you.”

“Why ain’t you boys workin’?”

The man in the rear spoke to the other who replied and then turned to face his mother again. “We off today.”

“Who’s that in the car with you?” she said as if noticing them for the first time.

“They’s some friends Mama.” He turned to the passengers and said, “You girls git out and meet our mama.”

He turned to this mother again and opened the door of the car. “They comin’ around to meet you, Mama.”

With that, those in the car emerged one by one, straightening their clothes and slapping away the dust that had covered them. As the women came around the car, the girls stepped from behind their mother and stared.

“Would you look at that?” Mabel said.

“You girls hush,” their mother said.

The women did present a spectacle for two young girls in the backwoods. Both wore similar dresses that hung straight from their shoulders and ended midways between their hips and knees and were joined by a row of fringe that ended six inches above the knee. The girls watched entranced as the fringe jiggled as the women walked toward the front porch, each on the arms of one of the men.

Fred and his companion stopped halfway across the yard. Carl took an extra step as he and his bumped the other two from behind. Recovering, they all stood at attention as if on review before those on the porch.

“Mama,” Fred began.

“Where’d you git that car?” His mother interrupted him and glared.

“Hit’s mine,” Fred said. “I bought it last week. Now Mama,” he began. “Where’d you git the money?” she said.

“I hauled some hogs for old man Atkins,” he said. “Now Mama …”

“Hit must have been one big load of hogs.”

“Mama, this here is Adele,” Fred said, proud of his persistence. “And back ‘air is Bobbie June. They’s friends of ours.”

“Why ain’t y’all haulin’ some more hogs if’n it’s yore day off? Can’t you use some extra money? I know we could.”

“Now Mama,” Carl said from behind Fred. “That’s what we need to talk to you about.”

“Shut up, Carl,” Fred said. “Mama, can we come in and talk to you a minute?”

The woman deliberated, still ignoring the two other women. Finally, she turned to the door, “Come on in, then. You girls stay out here.” She didn’t specify which girls so the two younger ones remained on the porch staring at the two women. They heard a door slam in the back of the house and the Mabel knew they had gone all the way to the kitchen to talk. It must be serious.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” the one named Adele said to Essie.

“Esther Mae,” she replied.

“That’s a right pretty name,” Adele said. “And what’s yours?” she said, turning to Mabel.

Mabel didn’t speak. She just turned toward Essie who nodded. “Mabel,” she said, finally.

“Well I’ll swan. Ain’t you the cutest two girls in Cleveland County?”

Before they could respond, loud voices roared from behind the closed door. The girls could only make out a word or two but they could tell it had something to do with liquor. Before they could hear more, the woman named Bobbie June spoke in a loud voice.

“Hey girls, come down here and let us show you something.”

They looked at one another. Again, Essie nodded and the two descended from the porch, one behind the other.

When they reached the two women, the one named Adele placed her hand on Mabel’s shoulder. She started to speak but sounds of loud voices from the back of the house attracted their attention. Mabel only caught the phrase “comin’ in here drunk” in the mixed confusion.

Suddenly Adele spoke. “I bet you girls don’t know how to do the Charleston, do you?”

Essie and Mabel both looked at her. “The what?” Essie said.

“The Charleston,” Adele said. “It’s the latest dance. You do know how to dance don’t you?”

“No ma’am,” said Essie. “We ain’t allowed to.”

“Not allowed to?” said Bobbie June, moving to draw their attention away from the house. “Why, you should, and I bet we can teach you in a sec.”

“You bet,” said Adele. “We been all the way to Dallas, Texas to learn it. You know where Dallas is?”

“No ma’am,” said Essie.

“Well, it’s a long way from Cleveland County, I’ll tell you that. Come here and look.”

She led the girls a few steps farther from the house and then turned to Bobbie June. “Let’s teach these girls a thing or two,” she said.

Bobbie June began to clap her hands in rhythm and, much to the delight of the girls, sang in a husky voice.

“Five foot two…

Eyes of blue..

But oh, what those five feet could do…”

They giggled when Adele began to move forward and backward in pace with singing, placing one foot in front of the other and then in back of it with arms swinging in perfect rhythm.

“Turned up nose…

Turned down hose…

Never had no other beaus…”

“Now come on, you do it do,” said Adele, grabbing Essie’s arm.

When Essie drew away, Adele said, “Don’t be afraid. It’s easy. Give it a try.”

She continued to dance and motioned for the other two to join her.

“See, just put one foot here, one foot there.”

Bobby June was joining her now, continuing to sing.

“Now if you run into…”

Suddenly Adele cried. “Look at that child.”

Three of them turned to watch Mabel who was now beginning to move in perfect imitation of Adele. She stumbled once, missed a beat, but soon was bouncing on her feet in complete harmony with the music.

“Look at that bearcat go. Kick them gams, you darb you,” said Adele. She stopped herself and joined Adele in singing and clapping as Mabel began to move in frenzied ecstasy. He eyes grew wide and her face contorted from concentration. Essie looked at her in amazement.

“But could she love…

Could she woo…

Could she, could she, could she coo?”

Bobbie June stopped singing then. Mabel continued do pour every bit of energy into dancing though there was no more music. The two women had turned toward the house when Carl came quick-stepping through front door toward the steps. As Mabel raged forwards and backwards, sounds of broken glass flew from the house and Fred came running out, dodging blows from a broom wielded by his mother. He crashed into Carl, who was halfway down the steps and the two went flying together into the four standing in the yard.

Mabel stopped dancing.

“And take them whores with you,” her mother shouted.

She needn’t have worried. The two women were already in car by then and before anyone else could move, Fred had joined them. Carl was already in front of the car violently spinning a starting crank. The engine started immediately and he ran to the back door, crank in hand, and dove in as the car began to move. In a moment, they were gone.

Mabel and Essie didn’t move. They had seen storms before and knew that the best defense was no defense at all. Essie simply looked a Mabel in amazement. Without changing expression, Mabel winked at her.

“You girls start gettin’ ready,” their mother said. “We got to go pick up Mizz Reed’s washin’.”

The girls walked back to the house holding hands. Without speaking to one another, they walked to the spot under the porch where they had left the baby rats. Essie squatted and removed the cover. She watched the babies for a minute or so, it seemed to Mabel. The she poked them with a finger.

“Mama, I think our babies died,” she said.

“I done told you they would. Now you girls git rid of them and git ready to go.” She turned and, broom in hand, went back into the house.

“Bring me our wagon,” Essie said.

Mabel turned without a word and went to the base of the tree where the matchbox wagon lay. She picked it up and returned with it to where Essie still squatted quietly. She handed the box to her sister.

“We ain’t got time to bury them now,” Essie said. She folded the rag that covered the tiny creatures and placed it in the box as a liner. Then she picked up the tiny objects one by one and placed them in a row upon the cloth. She rose slowly and showed the box to Mabel who simply nodded.

Holding the box in front of her, Essie started walking to a copse of trees just beyond the edge of the front yard, in the direction from which the car had appeared. That now seemed like years ago to Mabel. As they moved from the clearing, the trees made shadows cross their forms and then they were in the cool darkness out of sight from the house.

Essie began to sing as they walked, and after a few more steps, Mabel began to sway with the music. Now Essie did the same, still holding the matchbox coffin before her as they walked farther into the cool, dark woods.

“Five foot two…

Eyes of blue…”

THE ASSIGNMENT

          Truth be known, I didn’t want to do the piece in the first place. Hell, I wasn’t even a journalist. I was a consultant, a pretty good one, and should have stuck to it. But I had been doing these modest little columns for a Little Rock quarterly that promoted historic preservation. I was acquainted with the editor, I lived in a so-called historic district, and I knew most of the people who lived there. So, I agreed to help.

 It was a good fit. People associated living in historic neighborhoods with eccentricity back in those days. Things that supported that viewpoint were always welcome. So, folks liked my little “human interest” pieces. As for me, I was happy to stick to them. There was no chance of running out of characters, and I didn’t have to travel.

            Then the editor called me one day and asked me to stop by. When I got there, she up and gave me an assignment. Just like that, like I was some cub reporter or something. This posed a noticeable departure from the usual process whereby I just picked out some local oddball and wrote about how they had adjusted to living in an old house.

This time she picked the subject. Why? Beats me. Maybe I was getting stale, or she was trying to sell more copies or something. Rather than speculate, I went along with her for the moment.

            Well guess what? You never know what dish life is going to serve up and what decisions are going to throw themselves in front of you, threatening your hemostasis like a group of western bandits with their pistols drawn and ready.

Here’s how it started.

            A local banker, known to us all as a neighbor and a nice guy, had bought one of the most historic homes in the city. It boasted such long-term ownerships that the house and grounds came with a caretaker who had worked there since the Depression. Mr. Pitts cared for the grounds and lived in a small apartment attached to the carriage house, a.k.a. the garage. He was a quiet little man of advanced age who lived alone and remained out of sight when not working. All the neighbors knew him to nod at, but none of us had ever talked to him.

            The editor explained the human-interest angle. Supposedly, a friendship had grown up between Mr. Pitts and the banker’s young son Alfie—Alfred Chidester LaRue was his full name—a little blond-haired kid from the high-rent side of life. Get it? Old black gardener and white heir apparent, the image of an odd couple as corny as it was appealing to our liberal audience. All I had to do was interview the old man, mine a few historic nuggets and take a picture of him and the kid together. It would produce enough “ain’t that cutes?” to make a tough man buy a round of drinks. There was no Pulitzer looming, but it would get me through until another deadline appeared like a hungry tiger emerging from the mist. No problem.

Anyway, I didn’t have to. These columns represented a public service for me. In other words, I didn’t get paid. Seeing my words in print provided my only emolument. So, I had a degree of leverage unavailable to a poor inky wretch actually writing for a living.

I could have refused the assignment and interviewed, instead, a friend who was restoring a cottage near ours and who looked more like Charles Manson than Manson did himself. He played cello in the city’s symphony orchestra and would have been great material for a photo essay, the research being carried out over a couple of beers. Why should I spend a dry afternoon interviewing the town’s oldest gardener? It didn’t make a bit of sense. “To hell with the editor and her aspirations,” I kept telling myself. Was I my own man or what?

            Naturally, I took the assignment. I had to go through the banker himself and he pretty much outlined what he wanted the piece to say. Alfie was an only-child and, having few young friends in the neighborhood, he had taken up with Mr. Pitts. Followed him everywhere. Shared secrets with him. Even helped with the yardwork. Well, maybe a little. The important thing was the friendship that had developed between man and boy. That was the angle.

            Sure. One of the greatest and most persistent dreams of American Caucasians is that, someday, an African American will love them. But I could pretend with the best, so I pressed on to complete the assignment.

            I set up an appointment for the next Saturday afternoon. It was a nice autumn day that welcomed a person outdoors like an old friend wanting to show you his garden. I grabbed an ancient Rolliflex camera that I used for such work, made sure I had pen and paper, and walked the two blocks to the house.

The house sat on a half-block facing one of the two main streets leading directly to downtown. When it was built, wealth had followed the topography. The larger houses were on the highest ground and homes fell off in size and value as the topography dropped into the flood plain. It was never more than a short walk from the mansions to the homes from which domestic help could be hired, for practically nothing, in the good old days. In other words, urban form followed economic function. Households weren’t separated by income as they are now. That’s how, thanks to the historic preservation craze, I could afford to live near a bunch of mansions.

            Anyway, I arrived. Mr. Pitts had dressed up a bit. He always wore neat clothes with a narrow-brimmed dress hat. Today he had added a tie. He stood at attention with his hands to his side and presented a smile like a boot-camper at inspection. Alfie was bouncing a ball against a tree and the parents stood by with pride. All was set for this to be a painless adventure. Wham, bam, thank you m’aam and I meet my deadline.

            I called little Alfie over and made him sit for a picture with Mr. Pitts. As I lined it up, I pulled a few grunts out of the kid to the effect that he liked Mr. Pitts and enjoyed helping him with the yard work. Mr. Pitts sat smiling through thick eyeglass lenses that distorted his face to where it looked like one of those cartoon characters that has just seen something either real juicy or real dangerous.

            So far, so good.

            Figuring I had about all out of Alfie I was going to get, I excused him with “Now Alfie, why don’t you let Mr. Pitts and me visit while you get back to your yard work?” In other words, “Scram, kid!”

            Alfie was more than happy to be rid of adults, so he walked to beyond the garage. There, someone had dug a shallow pit from which smoke was rising. Within the pit, I assumed from the smell, were dead leaves, trash, and some sort of organic waste. Alfie amused himself by kicking more leaves into the fire.

His mother saw the opportunity and appeared from nowhere with a tray of cookies and iced tea. She sat them on the bench between us and asked, sweetly, and devoid of sincerity, the way only a southern woman can ask, if we were comfortable. After receiving affirmatives, she then swished away amid a crackling of petticoats and an almost audible smile. I pushed the tray toward Mr. Pitts. He smiled and pushed it back toward me.

            “No, please, go ahead,” I stammered, fumbling for my writing pen.

            “Thank you, suh,” he said. He exaggerated the “suh” so I—so we both—would know he didn’t attach any meaning to it. Then he took a cookie in one hand and a glass of tea in another. He neither drank nor ate right away, though. He rested the arm with the cookie on his leg and wrapped a hand around the glass of tea as if to keep it from flying away. He smiled at me. His eyes looked even larger than before.

            A breeze filled the yard and blew smoke from Alfie’s fire toward us. As it did, Mr. Pits finally raised the cookie in a soft arc to his mouth and took a small bite. He lowered it and raised his glass with the same grand gesture and sipped his tea.

            Hoping to get started, I asked him how long he had lived around there.

            “Oh, I was born around here,” he said. “I been here for as long as I can remember. We lived on Tenth Street but it went for the freeway. House ain’t there no more.”

            He chewed his cookie with what I thought was a grim expression. As he did, the smoke circled us and I caught the pleasant smell of burning leaves punctuated by the sharp odor of the other trash smoldering in the pit. Mr. Pitts stiffened and his eyes retreated behind his thick glasses.

            “I been here since when things were different than they are now,” he said. “Way different.”

Then, that far into the interview, he stopped talking. His voice didn’t exactly trail away as much as it fluttered beyond us like a feather caught in a whirlwind.

            I was losing him. I hurried back to work.

            “Different in what way?” I asked.

            He just looked at me. He seemed to struggle to respond and when he did, it wasn’t really to me but, it seemed, to the trees and the garden and maybe to the city itself with all its history and smoky secrets.

            “Way yonder different. Folks weren’t as good to you then.” He took another bite of cookie and drank from his glass. That energized him.

“My folks had it hard back then.”

            I tasted panic. Alfie had disappeared behind the garage and I felt as if I were on an asteroid hurtling through space with an alien. This affair wasn’t going according to plan. I nodded as if I understood and scratched on my pad without looking up. He continued.

            “The worse was what they done to Mr. Carter.”

            “Mr. Carter?” That was all I could manage.

            “Ain’t nobody should have had that done to them. Nobody. I don’t care if he was colored.”

            I gave up and stared at my pad. What was he saying, and where was he taking me? I stared right through my pad and into the ground. From therein oozed a memory. I met it halfway and solved the mystery.

Back in the 1920s, there had been a lynching in Little Rock, less than a half-mile from where we sat. It happened right in the middle of what was then the center of the “colored” commercial area, along Ninth Street.

“Oh my god,” I thought. “This is where he is going.” I tried to raise my head but it took three attempts to overcome the gravity created by that realization. When I did manage to look up, Mr. Pitts was somewhere far away, and scared. I mean really scared. His hand was shaking so much the tea was spilling.

            “I remember that day like it was yesterday,” he continued. They made us all go inside, for they knew there was to be trouble. I was just a child, but the oldest. My Momma put the youngest under the bed and made me watch after them. She said the white folks had done killed Mr. Carter and was draggin’ him down Ninth Street behind a car. She was scared and she made us all cry.

“We could hear people yellin’. They was honkin’ their horns and yellin’ so loud we could hear them in the bedroom. Wasn’t no colored folks on the street, except Mr. Carter and he was dead. They hung him and beat him and drug him up and down Ninth Street. We was all hidin’ and cryin.’ My Momma was tellin’ us to be quiet.” He stopped, looked away and back, directly at me.

“They shouldn’t have done that.”

            Here I was. It was a nice brisk autumn day and I should have been somewhere else, but I was sitting in someone else’s yard listening to an old man reciting his version of our city’s most awful moment and I couldn’t escape.

            “They drug him and drug him. All back and forth on Ninth Street. We could hear the cars and them horns honkin’, the honkin,’ oh my lord, the honkin’. Ain’t nobody ought to have that done to them. We was still cryin’ when they built a fire at Ninth and Broadway and burned him up. We could smell the smoke and that made us cry harder. My momma had some cookies in her apron pocket and she gave one to the younger kids to hush them up. She broke one in half and gave me a piece. She took the other half and then she started cryin’ too.”

            He looked at the cookie in his hand, then returned to that awful day.

            “Somebody said they broke one of his arms off and waved it at the cars going down Broadway,” he said. “I don’t know. Nobody looked out the window the whole time, for we was too scared.”

            I pretended to write something.

            “Too bad,” he said so low I barely heard him. “Them was bad days. Bad for us all.”

            The smoke circled us and I sat as still as I could. Mr. Pitts stopped talking and sat with his hand with the cookie resting on his leg. As the fog of remembrance cleared, he began to smile. He didn’t say anything. He was done talking to white strangers for the day.

            He sat there proud and triumphant, a black-skinned Cicero having had his say, needing neither accolades nor approval. I thanked him, not sure at all whether he even heard me, and then eased away and headed home. I was all confusion, trying to sort out what had just happened. I still had an assignment but what the hell was I going to write? The truth about what happened? That would be the honest thing. It might even be a good piece. Shake the readers up a bit. Let them know that history wasn’t all about cute Victorian houses. Hell yes!

            Back home, I sat in the kitchen and stared through the window. When I tried, I could hear the shouts on the street, feel the throb of the car engines running, and smell the acrid smoke of man and wood burning.

Damn that old man!

Outside the afternoon was dissolving into evening. The shadows got longer and darker the way our thoughts will as we doze. Beyond the kitchen window, the air was still crisp and clear. Inside, it was dark and gloomy. The evening sky changed purposefully that time of year like a lover moving from caresses to kisses, and then to the dark undertones of passion. My thoughts moved that way, too, as I reflected on the day and what it was trying to tell me. Maybe it was trying to tell me to be brave, or truthful …, or honest. Maybe it was suggesting that I approach what I was doing with something a little deeper than just seeing my name in print. Maybe it was just trying to tell me to say something else entirely, before darkness came. Maybe. Maybe.

After a time, I stood up and retrieved a beat-up Remington typewriter and package of paper from a closet and carried them, with as much gentleness as I could muster, into the kitchen. I placed the typewriter on the kitchen table so I could see beyond it into the deepening gloom. Then I slid a page of paper into it and turned the cylinder so the paper positioned itself precisely across the top, aligned there neat and worthy of higher-level thought. I drew and released a long breath of sad air—air that had once moved through the city and down the streets and around the large oak trees past the moving cars and quaint old houses and had once even flowed around the twitching, smoking body of John Carter.

I didn’t want to, but I smelled that smoke.

Click, click, I advanced the paper.

I was ready. My mind was as clear as the way of a traveler making the last turn on the last curve before home. I rubbed my hands. I thought how funny it would be to make the Sign of the Cross.

Instead, I started to type: “Mr. Otis Pitts, age 70 and a lifelong resident of Little Rock, has a new best friend who is only five years old.”

 July 2009

Revised 2017

CONTROL

It seems to me that extremist views are dominating our essential dialogue in America. For example, in the Uvalde, Texas mas slaughter, over 400 men with guns failed to stop the carnage. So yells about gun control reverberate.

Then in Indiana, one “good Samaritan” with a gun stopped an episode before a more extensive e mass killing might have occurred occurred. (Yes, one is too many). Extremists will yell, “Arm everyone.”

 Truth is, reactions to mass murders aren’t any more predicable than, it sometimes seems, reactions to minor criminal offenses. Events occur. History marches past without having consulted our opinion, and we beat on, “boats against the current.”

Consider:

Had Israel B. Richards not been mortally wounded at Antietam while leading his division in a charge on the sunken road, could the Civil War have ended on September 17, 1862? Some say yes. Some say no. 

Had Gavrilo Princip lost his way on June 28, 1914 and not found the Archduke and his wife, could the world have avoided World War I? Some say yes. Some say no.

If I strap on a pistol and happen to be at the next mass shooting, will I (and I have been trained on weaponry from the semi-automatic 45-caliber pistol to the M-60 machine gun to the M-79 grenade launcher) stop the killing and emerge a hero? I can’t imagine anyone saying, “Yes.”

If I lead a life suggestive of the premise that disagreements are best settled by thoughtful dialectics and compassionate dialogue, might the world emerge a bit more stable. I think so.

Maybe it's not guns that need controlling but our national psyche. 

ASPIRATIONS

 One statement that has impacted me more than most this year, was from a pundit on the news: “We don’t elect aspirational voices anymore.” How true. We elect voices that feed our niche. We elect voices that hate the same people we do. We elect voices that support what got us here, not what will get us out of here. We elect voices that promise to reduce rights for our enemies. We elect voices that promise to increase the likelihood of religious wars. We elect voices that feed our prejudices.

I live in a state that ranks at or near the bottom in every socioeconomic measurement of success. Our governor just announced  the good news that the state is experiencing a revenue surplus.

Will he have a “Cassidy Hutchinson Moment" and turn from the Dark Side?

Will he announce investment of funds for the impoverished Arkansas Delta?

Will he announce new measures to confront the drug crisis that is crippling our families and communities?

Will he move surplus funds into an improvement of education?

Will he work address crime and violence caused by our love of guns?

Well, no to all of these.

He plans to ask the legislature to cut taxes.

FREEDOM DAY

The darker angels of my nature offer a number of reasons why I should stare at my Honorable Discharge today and wonder if it was worth it. The voices of those who will most likely be elected to govern our state have not uttered one note of aspiration, only hints of retribution and retaliation.

The highest court in our land seems to hate everything I thought was decent and worthy of service. I have friends today who stare at their marriage license and wonder if it, unlike their love, will be everlasting. I even have dear friends who want our beloved democracy to be replaced by a bronze-age theocracy.

I see teenagers walking to work in the heat while televangelists ride in private jets at the taxpayers’ expense.

I see the deterioration of neighborhoods addressed by accusations on both sides, not acts by either.

But I read history and have seen my beloved country’s greatness spring from the darkest of swamps. It is stronger than those who call me a sucker for serving her and so I will.

UNDERSTANDING

 A different kind of progressive, I understand why a dear friend who made a good living and amassed a small fortune crawling around in attics in Arkansas Augusts resents paying taxes when he believes a large portion of them go to support able-bodied people who won’t work. I understand. I know that his beliefs don’t take into account the many truths and complexities of socioeconomic factors in America. I know he doesn't know the truth about taxation.

But I understand his feelings and we talk. What I can’t understand is mean-spirited people who, in the advancement of mythology or politics—yes I repeat myself—refuse to consider the despair of a young woman who finds that the man who impregnated her with the promise of eternal love and support has eschewed the responsibility of fatherhood and fled.

I don't understand the cruelty of men who would pass laws mandating that a woman die rather than receive the medical care prescribed by her doctor.

I don't understand the mendacity of lawmakers who give the male of the species a free ride in the whole abortion issue.

I just don't understand. Do you?

PROGRESS

 America seems to me to be entering a dark minefield. The fate of our country depends on passing through it in operatable condition.

In WWII, the American response to crossing a minefield was to halt progress while trained experts located and cleared a path, all the while under sniper fire.

The Russian Army used a different method. They simply marched troops through the field setting off mines until a path was clear. Their logic was the loss of troops by this method was about equivalent to the loss of troops through sniper fire and the method didn't require a halt.

I'm not sure what method is best for those of us who love our country. I do know that  one side in the battle3 has no scruples about dignity or goodness while the other does. Thus the choice may be either to halt while the evil strongholds are eradicated one by one, or to assume the standards of the opposition.

What do you think?